A Convocation Of Newts
by Ember Nickel
Summary: As Terry and his friends choose different paths in their final year, their brightest classmates fall victim to an unseen threat. AU, dark. For Horror Fest 2013.


_For Dark Arts Horror Fest 2013. Thanks to tamlane for beta work! Any remaining errors are my own._

"Drinks," says Michael with a grin, "are on me."

"Oh, really, you shouldn't." Terry waves a hand, and not just because he's calculating that his actually is cheaper than the others', it's not his fault he doesn't want to get plastered. The economics don't play into it, it's just, he can pull his own weight.

"Terry?" says Anthony.

"Yeah?"

"Let him pay."

"Oy," Michael takes another long gulp, "watch out for this one, he's trouble."

"I'm fine," Anthony belches, not entirely convincingly.

"Yeah. Well. I'm not hauling your drunk butt up to Hogwarts."

"Neither am I," Terry points out, "you're too big for me to carry."

"Mmhmm, well, in that case I am also too big to get drunk, so how about another round, eh?"

Terry squints. "Is that even how it works?"

"Michael?"

"Yes?" says Michael.

"Buy this man a drink and teach him the wonders of the expert—experimental method."

"I'm fine," says Terry, "really. Wait, hold on. Is this about the bet?"

"What bet?"

"See, he doesn't even remember, this is not fair. I'm the only one who remembers, and yet I don't want to get that drunk."

"I'm not drunk," Anthony protests.

"Didn't say you were, mate," Michael says, "but you're not making yourself look good right now. Terry, you explain."

"Don't you remember third year?" Terry asks. "No, second really."

They'd all huddled at the Ravenclaw house table, dutifully looking over their class schedules and trying to pick out which electives to take. Then they'd proceeded upstairs to the tower, where it was the same conversation over again, too unoriginal to change the subject. The boys, all three already close friends, had each been confident they would end up with the most N.E.W.T.s by the end of their seven years.

Now, with preliminary results already rolling in, those days seem laughable. How could they have known that Anthony would spread himself so thin that he barely managed to sneak As in several of his O.W.L. courses? Or that Michael would pare his coursework down to a minimum in his final year as he immediately landed a Ministry internship? Only Terry seemed committed to some semblance of a specialized academic life.

"You know what was mental about that bet?" he says, "We were second years, it wasn't like we'd been to Hogsmeade. So how did this get to the point of 'paying in alcohol'?"

Michael shrugs. "I took some initiative?"

This seems to be a satisfactory answer, at least to Anthony, who is—if not drunk, per se—at least lighthearted enough to not care that Terry has trailed off. "How much do they even pay you, that you can take us out as just an intern?"

"Enough," says Michael, "that I'm not tempted to defect for some other job, that would hypothetically speaking give me room and board and two or three months off every year."

Terry's mouth makes an o as another few drops trickle through. "You could teach Defense now? For a year or so?"

"Amlaidh did teach it for a year, back when we were babies. Just as a favor to Dumbledore, you know. Resigned with faculties intact!"

"Amlaidh this, Amlaidh that," says Anthony, swinging his glass from side to side, "are you his intern or his lover?"

"I'm not just an intern!" Michael plays along, his eyes seeming to glaze over at the chance to sing a paean to his supervisor. "He gives me responsibilities, you know, I can really contribute to departmental progress!"

"Mmhmm. Sure you can. Owl me when you pick a date, I'll be your best man."

"Come off it, mate, I'll need you as a flower girl. Some day."

"Or if you get engaged sooner just announce it at school."

"That sounds like a plan. Dig out those old DA coins, hullo everyone, Michael Corner's settling down and earning a living while you swots are still trying to pass your N.E.W.T.s."

"That's the spirit. Don't you think even the Boy Who Saved All Our Rear Ends Again is having a gentleman lover? You're just a trendsetter."

"Potter?" Terry interrupts. "He and Weasley aren't—"

"Him and Malfoy, I reckon. The way they keep going on about house unity and owt."

Terry shakes his head. "That's just because of the Voldemort business."

None of them are quite sure what had happened that past summer. Potter wouldn't brag about it, he claimed to want to just go back to being a student, except not really, as he kept slacking off in class. All the same, rumor had it that Draco Malfoy had tried to assassinate a professor or some rubbish, before having a change of heart and helping Potter bring down Voldemort.

"Yeah, well," says Anthony, "he keeps hanging out with Gryffindors!"

"There're other Gryffindors besides Potter."

"That's not as fun, though. To—recon—reckoning—working together with old enemies!" Anthony decides on, raising his Firewhiskey.

"Cheers," Terry clinks his glass in turn.

"To the working world!" adds Michael.

"To Amlaidh," Anthony adds, "and whatever's down his robes!"

"Oy," says Terry, "I'm all for equality, but give Michael a break."

"Whatever's ruddy well in his pockets, then, for buying our Firewhiskey that."

"I'll drink to that," Michael acquiesces.

Terry smiles. "To peace."

* * *

If Hermione Granger should happen to go missing, nobody will really bat an eye. At least not Terry and his Ravenclaw friends. Sure, Potter was the one who went around defeating Dark Lords, but Granger was the brightest witch of her age. She never needed to be chosen by some prophecy or cabal, she just got down to business and always declared herself in charge of solving the mystery of the month. So if, any given day, she was away, rounding up stray Death Eaters or doing research on the continent or agitating for labor reform, nobody needed to ask specific questions. Whatever she was doing, it was probably for their own good, in the long run.

That was how things had always gone. For six years.

And then she stops coming to class, out of the blue. Terry remembers, too vaguely, the wild coils of her hair all over the place as she riffled through the library, guaranteeing that her paper would cause Professor Binns to reevaluate several centuries' worth of historiography, and sort of thinks that she wouldn't just go off like that without letting the ghost know. But he doesn't ask questions—Anthony is terrified that Hogwarts isn't safe, and Michael has to hold them all together when he's not dashing off to his internship.

"But—it just—" Anthony splutters again.

"Is it any of your business?" Michael asks.

"No, but—"

"Then let the professors handle it, I have to go."

"C'mon, mate," says Terry, "let's get dinner."

So he lets Anthony shove aside firsties, who are just as panicky themselves if not more, in order to get the freshest scones at the Ravenclaw table. And then it's back to essays. Terry writes in small, tight script, so that even when he reaches the length minimum there's still a good deal more words than if he'd scrawled. Wouldn't want to underachieve.

There's no word from Granger, and the rumors get louder. Terry keeps an eye on Potter and Weasley, who look distraught, and that's a bad sign. He hears Padma and her sister talk at one point—I mean, there's a ghost student in the bathrooms, Diggory got killed at the tournament, even in the worst-case scenario they wouldn't close the school—didn't Ginny Weasley almost—that's not the same— and fears all the more.

And then, when they find her, she appears—from the outside—to be all in one piece.

Her hair is dry. There is no telling how many hours or days have passed for the lifeblood to fade from her. And her hands can be magicked to cross themselves or something presentable. They might have been gripping a wand or a quill or Weasley's fingers with equal passion, beforehand. There is only rumor on every side, amplified by the echoes of the ancient staircases. What in the school could have possibly bested Hermione Granger? No one knows, and, in their darker moments of fear, no one cares. If she could offer no resistance, what good were they going to do?

There's a funeral and a Ministry official from a world she spent barely a third of her life in blathering on. Terry remembers little of what he says, only the way the wind was blowing in off the Quidditch pitch, and the way the ghosts hovered inside the doors to the castle, unwilling to take their place among empty words.

* * *

It's Luna Lovegood, of all people, who begins speculating as to what might have killed Granger. At first Terry can't believe it. He's only half-listening in the same way everybody half-listens to Lovegood, but as she keeps going, he gets a little more worried. Hadn't Lovegood been closer to Granger than the others, when she was hanging out with Ginny Weasley or whatever?

Once she starts prattling about "and of course it's well-known that the Aurors are corrupt" he cuts in with a "Shut up!" more loudly than he'd meant.

Lovegood doesn't get angry, just stares at him for a minute and says "Well, students have a right to know the truth."

"Which we'll get from the faculty, and not from you spouting your mouth off," he snaps, but then pauses. Lovegood doesn't deserve that.

"Because the administration has always known better than me?" she asks. Not harshly, not even focusing on his face, but she makes her point.

Terry breaths slowly. You-Know-Who—Voldemort, now—is well and truly dead. But if there are still Death Eaters out there, Granger would surely have been high on their list of targets, and Lovegood will know. "So what do you think happened to Granger, then? And if it's not something you have evidence for, maybe—hold off on suggesting that to first-years or people who weren't in the DA."

"Well," Lovegood shrugs, "did you see her forehead?"

"When?"

"At the casket, of course."

"Er—no—I mean—I must've—but nothing out of the ordinary."

"It was stitched up. Not in one piece. Someone must have put her back together, although it really doesn't matter, does it."

"I thought they said there weren't really wounds or scars?"

"It was subtle, just at the top of her head. Probably the killer cut her open and then left."

"But why would they do that?" he stammers, feeling idiotic even as he says it. Talking to Lovegood, somehow, can have this effect from time to time.

"If I had to guess, it was some form of blood magic. Illicit trading, obviously, or combined with some sort of Pureblood nonsense can be very dangerous."

"Huh." Well, it makes as good an argument as any, which isn't saying much. "Why her head?"

"Probably mouth blood is richer, they can use that to bribe the Dental Fairies."

"...you mean the Tooth Fairy?"

"That's the Muggle corruption of it, but they're actually a ruthless subculture. Very sophisticated and savagely cruel. Of course the Aurors know about it, that's why they're in on the Rotfang Conspiracy."

Aha. That's a bit more like it. "Well, just, be careful about who you theorize to. Wouldn't want the—blood purists or whoever—to come after you."

"Of course I'm careful," she says, "but then again, so was Hermione."

No one really talks seriously about closing the school, though a couple parents decide to withdraw their students. This wasn't some Triwizard Tournament where people were meant to have some vague idea what they were getting themselves into, this was a bolt from the blue. Holed up in the library one day, wand vaguely at the ready but really his left arm falling asleep while his right slowly turns the pages, Terry idly thinks that this might have been a greater loss. Granger, barely eighteen, had already saved the world and gotten more O.W.L.s than she knew what to do with. These children, being taken out of school through no fault of their own, will never get the chance.

* * *

Everyone has stopped giving Potter grief, with Granger dead. Even Anthony leaves off his newfound hobby of ribbing him about mending bridges with Draco Malfoy. And it's clear to anyone who watches Quidditch games, Potter's not the Gryffindor that Malfoy really wants to impress, making up for lost time.

That would be Katie Bell, the Chaser who'd been sent to St. Mungo's for most of her seventh year. After consultation with the professors, she's been welcomed back and is catching up with flying colors. And for whatever reason, she's been charmed—though not literally—by Malfoy's hasty earnestness. Terry notices them sometimes, not snogging or anything too exciting, but going on slow walks to Hogsmeade or playing Exploding Snap or simply paging through Which Broomstick together. Bell's the oldest student in the school, and Malfoy is trying to balance gravely coming of age over the dark summer with returning to the lighthearted lightweight he'd been as a Seeker. It's mental, but there's no accounting for taste.

What impresses Terry and the rest of the D.A. crowd is that Malfoy doesn't make a show of his new relationship. He could, if he wanted, to, strut around the school if she'd deign to lean on his arm (which is never likely), or be more subtle about holding hands in the library, trying to impress the right advocate for equality. But instead he's either making an outright fool of himself as he charges up to Gryffindor Tower for a late-night snogging session, or content to pace the dungeons with his old friends before rushing off to class.

Terry's always seen him in class, including some electives. Of course, Malfoy's smarter than his Slytherin friends, but that says nothing. And if he's done well in Ancient Runes, well, that's just because he's never going to have to work a day in his life, so he can study whatever electives he wants to. Isn't it?

But then comes the day when Terry wants to check out some twelfth-century Runic poetry from the library. Not to study, not even for extra credit, it's just—the old witches had things to say. They could fit words together with a boldness he can rarely find from his contemporaries. He'd tried to read through some hymns with his friends, back in his first few years, but Anthony only went along with it to please him and Michael never cared.

Still, life will triumph, Terry knows, no matter how brilliant a scholar is cut down. He just wants to be reminded of that by someone more articulate.

Madam Pince sniffs as she hauls out the box of cards listing checked-out books. "That volume has already been checked out."

"When's it due back?"

She looks down. "February 7th."

"Who has it out?"

"I do not disclose my patrons' personal information."

Rolling his eyes, Terry treks out, resolving to ask his professor after class the next day—maybe she'd know if someone had taken it for extra credit? But he has little appetite for breakfast and makes it to class early instead, and decides on asking then.

"Oh, the Bonhomme anthology?" Malfoy asks, walking in.

Terry whirls on him. "Yeah. Why?"

"I'd checked that one out," he shrugs, "wanted to make a study of the alliteration."

"You—is that—for class?"

"No, just, can't a bloke read a book when he wants?"

"Yeah, course, just—never mind."

"You can have it, if you need it."

"No, I'm fine."

Malfoy says nothing, but when class meets again two days later, he's there well before Terry—who actually is able to pack away a few biscuits, that time around—and drops the book on his seat with a flourish. Terry blushingly accepts, and after the weekend, he brings it back.

"What's that in your bag?" Malfoy asks.

"Nothing," Terry instinctively answers.

"You copied one of the poems out?"

"Yeah," he finally says, "you need the book for your study or whatever you're doing, I just—copied out the poem I liked."

Malfoy reaches for it with forefinger and thumb, pulling it out by the corner and holding it at arm's length as he rereads the lyrics of mourning and hope. Terry tries to ignore the lump forming in his throat as Malfoy turns to him, sure he's going to say something mocking.

"Boot," he drawls, "your handwriting is awful."

"They're runes!" Terry bursts, "they're supposed to be scrawly."

"Look at mine!" Draco boasts, pulling an assignment out of his bookbag.

"Yours are all curly, they look like a first-year girl passing notes."

"Back in the day, eleven-year-old witches knew runes, there's no shame in that."

"You're impossible," says Terry, but before he can elaborate class has started.

Malfoy isn't in class two days later. Or Charms that afternoon or Potions in the evening. Or Transfiguration the next morning or Herbology in the afternoon or Astronomy that night.

He also isn't in Ancient Runes the following morning, but nobody else is either, because they've been called to the Great Hall for an assembly.

Over the weekend, when they have another funeral—this one more ostentatious and yet duller, splashier but faster-paced than the last—Terry sneaks a glance at Malfoy's face, and sees a row of stitches on his forehead.

* * *

"Look, Michael," Anthony stammers, "if I were you, I'd drop out."

"I get the point," says Michael.

"D'you think I'm thick? Listen, I—"

"You're brilliant! I've read your essays! Of course you're not thick! But I'm not going to drop out of school."

"Anthony has a point," Terry admits. "Both the victims were from our year, different houses, it might be someone else up next."

"Are you guys dropping out of school? Of course not."

"We need N.E.W.T.s," says Anthony, "you already have your internship, why not get out of here and be done with it?"

"Amlaidh thinks I should get my N.E.W.T.s too. It'll be easier to handle the bureaucracy that way, once I'm working full-time, you know, getting promotions and all that."

"Who has time to worry about promotions, now?"

"Everyone does," Michael shrugs, "Hogwarts isn't shutting down, is it? People are carrying on, doing their studies. If they didn't think it was safe, we'd all be sent home."

"It clearly is not safe," says Terry. "Once is a fluke, twice is a pattern."

"You don't really think there's some pattern to it?"

"Luna thinks so."

"Oh, it's Luna now, is it?"

"You're one to talk," Anthony blurts, "you and Amlaidh the brilliant boss!"

"Oh, come off it," says Michael, and for a minute they're laughing so hard they've forgotten to go on weeping.

By the time they calm down, there's not even a mutual glance of now that we're feeling a bit guilty let's get on with the studying, just a quick look between Michael and Terry of don't you start laughing again or we'll all be right back where we started. For all the talk of patterns, it isn't like Terry's altering his routine any. What good is it going to do?

Anthony hasn't exactly altered his routine, either, but Terry sees the way he's never working alone. He's always eating breakfast right next to Terry or trying to help Potter and Weasley with Transfiguration homework—"house unity, you know. " He even waits until Terry's going to the loo before tagging along! It's not that Terry minds, they're best mates, but the fear shows up when he can't predict it. It isn't like there's someone sending anonymous owls to the Daily Prophet or leaving their demands scrawled in blood, designing their own tattoos or calling attention to themselves in any way. Just silent deaths.

Michael, well, of course Michael's changed, there's Amlaidh the Amazing Supervisor to please at the Ministry after all. He looks exhausted in class sometimes, and skives off his homework, but perhaps there's not much reason to try anymore.

One night he's working late, so Anthony just huddles by Terry's side in the common room. Their eyes flicker left and right; Anthony looks to Padma, Luna, Ravenclaw's bust, the Grey Lady in jitters. Terry finally goes up to bed when he realizes he's read the same paragraph three times without any increase in knowledge, and Anthony follows wordlessly.

Not until they're about to clamber into bed does Anthony say "You could run away, you know."

"What?"

"Do a bunk. Get out of here, take your courses by owl or just read and pass the N.E.W.T.s in the spring. You're plenty good on the practicals already, you could just read the rest. You—you'd be better off outside here, don't you think?"

"I mean, I'm so close already, I can wait it out. After all we've been through?"

"I—I'm just saying. I'd cover for you! Tell them you—were safe."

"Thanks, Anthony, I'm all right."

"Okay. If you're sure."

"There's—nothing on your mind?"

"No. Just. The usual. If that's anything anymore."

* * *

Gryffindor are favorites against Hufflepuff in both sides' second Quidditch match of the season, and Michael has gone so far as to calculate odds and place a flutter on the match with some of the young Ravenclaw players, who are scouting out the Lions for the final that spring. "I didn't know you were a gambler," Terry laughs.

"Well, now that I'm earning a salary, I figure I might as well squander it away," shrugs Michael.

"What's the likely spread?" Anthony asks.

"I can't tell you that, it's a trade secret!"

Anthony pauses. "How much should I pay you for it?"

"How much do you want to bet on the game?"

"With you, nothing, you'll cheat."

"Oy, " says Michael, "I have a special contractually-binding parchment, just for you."

"Just to hit me over the head with."

"You're so dumb, I wouldn't bet on the match with you, it'd just be like taking Chocolate Frogs from a Puffskein."

"I've got seven N.E.W.T.s on this form, Flitwick told me."

"Really?" Michael seems genuinely surprised.

"Didn't think I had it in me, did you?"

"Course I did, come on, are we betting on this or what?"

"Aye, Hufflepuff'll keep it within twenty, if not win it outright..."

Terry just laughs. It's good to see Anthony acting himself again, even if it is gambling on sport.

"I should go," Michael admits, once the terms for the wager are signed and sealed. "Gotta make sure the Ravenclaws don't try bribing people to throw the game."

"Isn't the threat of Hooch enough?" Terry asks.

"Maybe they'll bribe her, too. Can't be too careful." And with that he darts off towards the pitch.

Anthony gives a brief look of revulsion, as if fearing that, when nothing is safe, nothing can be sacred either. Terry claps him on the back. "C'mon, if we're quick we can get through this essay before the match."

Terry wraps up his essay with a few minutes to spare. Anthony dawdles on his, but proudly declares he doesn't need to rush. He's ahead on his numerous other assignments and will have plenty of time, later on. So they make their way down to the pitch, Ravenclaw scarves more for warmth than for any display of allegiance.

It's a high-scoring game. The Chasers are on-form, and most everyone else isn't. Between Potter and Ron Weasley the Gryffindor team has the potential for greatness, but their hearts clearly aren't into it. Not even Ginny Weasley is up to her usual standards, although she's still an able passer.

Bell, for that matter, might also have been distracted. But instead she plays with a distant grace, soaring above the other players, even the Seekers sometimes, before plummeting downwards and nonchalantly flipping the ball through the goalposts. She doesn't need to be there, it seems; she's too old, has survived too much, to fit in with the other students. If she deigns to play with them, it's because it is her own choice, and once the choice is made, she'll commit to it with all the fire she can muster.

Hufflepuff are no slouches, though, and once they take possession, a series of quick passes sends them hurtling towards the opposing posts as they continue to rack up points. They score on a couple penalty shots after an aggrieved Ginny Weasley clashes with them in close quarters. When Ron Weasley misses the saves, he grows angry at her, and Gryffindor's attack falls flat. Only Bell's breakneck descents keep them in the game, until the young Hufflepuff Seeker comes up with the Snitch, giving them an upset victory.

Terry applauds—the underdogs, the apathetic losers, the gracious losers, a professional Hooch alike. Anthony is grinning, waving his scarf madly and almost thwapping several of the students alongside them. "Knew they had it in 'em!" he calls. "Got to find Michael."

Terry nods as Anthony clambers through the stands, his scarf trailing behind him in the crosswinds. The Ravenclaws are slow to trickle back to the dorm, but Terry's in no rush; he follows along and winds up in the common room with the rest of them, finishing off Padma's half-finished Daily Prophet crossword.

But the thing about Quidditch is that it happens six times a year while they have several classes a day week in and week out. And despite that rarity, or maybe because of it, that's what people get worked up about. It's not enough to win a game or three, no, there must be practices. And side bets. Oh, yes, and raucous victory celebrations in the Hufflepuff common room, while the Gryffindors drown their sorrows upstairs.

So while you can skip a class you've gone to seven hundred times and nobody will pay much attention at first, Quidditch gatherings are different. It's the Lions themselves who notice that Bell isn't around, and—to hear Dean Thomas tell it—he and Ginny Weasley are just convinced that she's taken the loss harder and doesn't want to be around her teammates at present. But Potter and Ron Weasley are on edge, so down they trek, wands at the ready.

And then—to hear Dean tell it, through the tears and curses—why hadn't the D.A. closed ranks around her?—they find her outside the locker room. Her face would have been more frustrated at the defeat than suspicious of anyone she'd seen coming. Except that her scalp had been sliced through, and the blood splattered her otherwise-still face.

* * *

"I think Luna's onto something," says Terry, "they're cutting open people's heads, they want blood."

"You can't be serious," says Michael. "Dental fairies?"

"Well, it's the best idea I've heard so far. Or don't you trust Thomas and them?"

"I'm not really keen on trusting anyone, these days."

"Yeah, but Luna's out of her skull," Anthony begins, then cuts himself off, shivering as he flips the pages of another thick textbook.

"Leave her alone," says Terry, "she figured this out before anyone else did."

"Wouldn't have thought you'd be the one getting worked up about this," says Michael.

"What, just because some freak's ripping people's heads open, is an excuse to tease our housemates?"

"No, I thought you'd be the least likely to get worked up about freaks ripping people's heads open."

Terry pauses, trying to figure this out, gives up, and gives a mock-gracious bow. "Someone has to come in last."

"Aren't you the one who's going on about ghosts being witnesses to the soul?"

"I've kept quiet since third year, you clearly don't care, and I'm not going to bore you to tears—"

"Clearly none of our classmates are around haunting the place, you should be pleased they've moved on."

"Pleased? Do you think I'm an idiot or a dark wizard?"

"I think you're a hypocrite, is what you are," Michael challenges. "It's all well and good for you to have your little hymn sings when things are going well but at the first sign of trouble you're panicking like the rest of us."

"First sign of trouble? We're up to about three now, in case you've missed it."

"Oh give over," says Anthony, "you know what he means, you're just arguing for arguing's sake."

"Oh and what about you?" Terry snaps. "What are you arguing for? You don't think we can go back to normal, yet?"

"I—you're both idiots, what does it matter. I swear you're better off out of here, both of you."

"He's right, isn't he?" Michael leans forward. "Don't you think you'd be just as happy off on some cloud with a harp? You've been good, believed the right whatever it is—"

"Come off it," says Terry, trying to keep his voice steady, "I like living, and whatever happens after is, here's the trick, out of my hands. What does any of this have to do with it? If I wanted to skip to the next adventure I'd have offed myself on my own time, don't take the mickey."

"And you don't go doubling back whenever someone gives you a hard time, now you know how it feels," says Anthony.

"I've been—keeping my faith to myself for three years because it put you off, what more do you want?" Terry turns across the room and sees Luna, shrinking away deeper into her copy of The Quibbler. "Forget it," he says, standing up, "you're right, I'm—messed up at the moment."

"Hey," Michael follows after him, "you can't just—"

Terry claps him on the shoulder, and Michael freezes up. Quickly, Terry pulls his arm back while Michael leans forward, neck muscles bulging, and Terry drops his voice. "Look," he tries to say, but it comes through as him almost mouthing instead, "watch out for Anthony, okay?"

"What?" Michael's head jerks back in disbelief.

"I don't," Terry tilts his mouth so that Anthony, who's gone back to reading his book, can't see, "trust him. The way he keeps telling us to bail, I think it could be a warning, maybe he's scared he'll be found out or something. He's not himself and—look, I know we all are reacting or whatever you want to call it in different ways. But—I wouldn't stick alone with him anymore, okay? He keeps trailing us, it could be a cover..."

Michael pauses and shakes his head. "Terry, you git, I've got a job, I've got a life, I don't need your help."

"Well, don't blame me for actually trying to help. For caring about your worldly life here on Earth."

"I won't," Michael smiles. "Promise."

* * *

But Anthony buckles down, and is back to the swottish routine soon enough. Bags under his eyes, at least up in the dorm—in class he's on full alert, not launching his hand into the air at every opportunity, but rather picking and choosing when to impress the teachers, before sitting back again and grasping the feathers of his quill as he trawls it across the page.

The night comes when he stays in the common room to finish off a Potions essay, still looking drowsy. Wordlessly, Michael and Terry exchange glances and make their way towards the dormitory. There are advantages for Terry in having two best friends, after all, including having an easy reason not to be left alone with one of them if he's suspicious.

Though not suspicious enough to report anything to the faculty. That was the kind of thing Potter did. Terry isn't Potter, and so much the better, he thinks.

He lies awake, trying to repeat his Astronomy notes to himself until he goes to sleep. But unlike Anthony, he has not been pushing himself as hard as he might have, preferring to dabble in his own specialties, and isn't as worn-out. So he remains aware of the sound of snores, shifting bedsheets, footsteps...

Footsteps?

Abandoning a recitation of the Saturnine moons, Terry reaches for his wand, reluctantly, and slips out of bed, still barefoot. There's a movement at the side of the room, outwards towards the door. Is it already too late?

"Lumos," he whispers, and a tiny speck of light takes root. The figure across the room looks over, and Terry jerks the wand around until another pair of eyes follows the glow.

"Merlin's pants, Terry, you scared me," Michael calls back.

"What're you doing?"

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"Can't you just—you know—hold it in?" Okay, this does not sound like one of Potter's escapades.

"For the love of—"

"Or I'll come with you, ssh."

"I don't need an escort to the bathroom, mate, c'mon."

"Can't hurt. I can't sleep either."

"Terry, I work in the real world, and people don't walk each other to the bathroom."

"They don't go around chopping people's heads off and draining the blood, either!"

"Nobody's draining anyone's blood."

"Your boss Amlaidh would not let you go off on your own with a murderer running around, if he could help you."

"You don't know Amlaidh, he—he trusts me to do real work! None of this busy paperwork you go on about."

"Oh, because the Ministry isn't paper-pushing. What do you even do?"

"Nothing—nothing you'd want any part of."

"I thought you were going into research."

"The public sector can handle that."

"Maybe someday you'll discover a magical method of bladder control."

"You're scared, aren't you? Of being held captive to your body. No, to yourself."

"What I'm scared of is you getting hacked to death by a nutter, come on, let's go to the loo if you're that desperate."

Terry steps closer, but there's a fervent energy in Michael's face, and he speaks with a deeper confidence than usual. "I'm not desperate."

"Then you can hold it in. C'mon, we'll wake the rest of the dorm at this rate."

"I won't be long." Michael steps to the door, Terry follows. "Get lost!"

"What's it to you if I come along?"

"Do you want Anthony to suspect you're onto something?"

"If it gets him to knock it off, then maybe, yeah."

"He won't change anything."

"You don't know that."

"Anthony's a bright wizard. But I can get inside him. Figure out what makes him tick."

"I'm glad you're confident, but you have nothing to lose from me coming to relieve myself."

"You are scared." Michael makes for the staircase, and Terry hovers two steps behind him, his still-illuminated wand giving them both tiny shadows. "You don't want to admit you're just a brain, after all. A squishy, temporary brain."

"A body's like—" And Terry knows, as they lope down the stairs, for all his Ravenclaw pride he'll never really be clever. The words just flop helplessly from his mouth when it really matters. "Like a nice pair of dress robes, innit. You're not gonna wear them forever, but you ought to take good care of them, otherwise it's expensive and you're uncomfortable all day, and you look like an idiot in front of all your mates."

"Like robes," Michael repeats, "that unravel. It takes true cleverness to figure out what makes them work. We really don't have enough data, it's a pity. Conservatives at the Ministry making things run too slowly. But we're coming along now."

"You're at the Ministry, ask for a grant for funding."

"A grant?" Michael has his own wand out now. "I told you, Amlaidh has me doing proper work."

"Bully for Amlaidh."

"A brain will respond to the right spells, you know. It's all just neurons, you don't need some living soul to animate it. Get the incantation right, there's no telling what sort of power you can harness." They turn down the spiral, a flight below the common room. "Though," Michael nods, "a brilliant start helps."

Terry brings to mind Katie's elegant strategy, Draco's neat runes, Hermione's Protean Charm, and then thinks of Anthony's interminable transcript. "Expelliarmus!"

"Oh you'll have to do better than that," Michael crows, "Petrificus Totalus!"

There's no room to dodge side to side in the stairwell, only ducking low and jumping high. Terry casts Protego as Michael fires off curse after curse—there might even be a hurried bolt of green light hitting the ceiling, harmlessly. The others had seemed so calm, and though perhaps a temporary charm might have distorted their faces, they could just have easily never seen the deadly blow coming.

Terry has the high ground, and eventually decides to try outmuscling Michael—a good kick could send him down the stairs, wand or no wand. But Michael is just as cunning on defense as he remains on offense, sending jinxes hurtling between Terry's swerving legs even as he creates and alters shields instantaneously.

There can be no quarter, now. Terry tries a few Stunning Charms of his own, anything to knock Michael off-balance, but they are immediately turned aside in spurts of light. Whenever Michael falters and takes a step down, Terry immediately presses in, but Michael uses the split-second to ready himself and return another curse.

Terry tries to remember the D.A. —they'd beaten Voldemort, well, Harry had, and Hermione, little good that had done her. He and Michael had been on the same side, and Anthony—

They make their way into the common room, breathing quickly, and Terry catches a glimpse of their friend, who's fallen asleep over his books. Of course, with Terry shying away from him, he's had nothing else to do but work himself to the bone, scrape more NEWTs than most of their class. "Anthony, you git, wake up!"

Can he split his beams of light like Michael does so adeptly, green sparks sending Terry diving towards a window while a blue shield wraps around him? Before he can hypothesize, Michael's already sending another bolt at Anthony, and it's all Terry can do to try and deflect the blows from an angle.

Here's where some bulk might help. Crouching low, he shoves Anthony to the side, and Anthony only barely opens his eyes before toppling out of the chair. Getting his bearings, he scrambles to his feet, only to see that Michael has swooped in and snatched up his own wand.

"It was him," Terry rasps, "just run, get a teacher, someone—go!"

And Anthony runs, almost tripping over his books as Michael furiously takes after him. Terry grabs the empty chair and hurls it between them; Michael catches his breath as he casts a charm to push it back through the air. Terry throws the abandoned inkwell next, and Michael has to push that aside as well, by which time Anthony is at last safely out of the room, already running through the halls.

But Michael is dueling with two wands, and Terry can't hold on much longer. He tries just to keep Michael focused on him, forget about Anthony running away. As much as it seems like simple defensive spells will buy Anthony the most time, it's actually his offensive provocations that rile Michael up.

"Ignore this," Michael sneers, before both wands combine with the same curse. Could it be the Cruciatus? Terry doesn't know, and almost doesn't care—the pain itself is blinding enough. In his tired legs, his quivering wand hand, and above all in his head, tormenting him from every direction equally, as if to form a more perfect sphere than the uncombed fringes of his scalp.

He reminds himself that this is what he wants, that a swift Killing Curse would have been too quick. And since he's still alive, there's a chance of his survival, to boot.

The pain recedes, momentarily, but only long enough for Michael to Disarm him and wait a moment, turning all three wands in his hand. When Terry does silently offer a prayer—for Anthony to get away, for the school to be safe, even for Unspeakables to find something else important to investigate—it's a matter of course, something he's done too often to find notable, and something his tongue is too broken to chance aloud.

Then Michael takes a step closer and the pain reappears, more focused—he really is being sliced open. "Accio," Michael calls, with nothing left to lose, as if to bring Terry's brain straight through by way of his face, eyes and mouth exploding to dead matter.

But his ears catch hold of the drapes, a rustling in the night, before he falls apart.


End file.
